vulpeculawrites

[vulpeculawrites]

Monsters in Deserts

There is a dead thing

That lives in the sand

It gobbles up travelers

It tears with clawed hands

And there is a road

We each must traverse

And a bone deep reluctance

Of being the first

But if we go walking

In numbers

In force

Then someone might make it

If they stay the course

Or maybe, just maybe

We’ll ALL end up dead

And we’ll never discover

Where the pilgrimage lead.

-V(9/2/2019)

[vulpeculawrites]

Relics

High in the mountains, on a peak that is more often than not bathed by the light of the moon, there is a temple. Thousands of years ago, many thousands, it was bright and shining and full of life, the home of a long forgotten deity.

Now though, it is a ruin, a shadow of what it was formerly. The walls have crumbled but not fallen. The stone steps have been weathered by rain, wind, ice and snow. The torches have long burned out and the altar is barren of offerings. Inside there is nothing save a curious and lonely relic left behind.

The sword is too large for a normal man, and stuck too deep into the stone to be easily retrievable. It is a dull blade, and though rust has not touched it, it's age is somehow obvious, and it is very old. It has an air about it, as if someone put it there expecting it to stay there, knowing that they would not be back. Knowing that they would never wield it again. Wind whistles through the empty temple.

The sword does only one thing. It waits.

-V(9/1/2019)

[vulpeculawrites]

A Call to Adventure

Once there was a girl, she wasn't very strong, nor very smart. She could be considered average, by most she was. However, she was also the hero of her own story, and she had a weapon. She wielded it with sureness, not doubting the power it held. Every movement was a flourish, her long thin fingers flexed in practiced movements, conjuring words onto a blank white page.

She wielded the pen like a wand, magic flooded out onto the paper in black ink. She used it as a sword, fighting the creeping darkness and the encroaching walls of sadness. She held it with a tense arm, making it a shield against the world around her, blocking out the cold of reality. It was a compass that led her into the warmth of her own imagination, and a blanket to be pulled over her shoulders as a comfort when her emotions burst out of her and needed a place to be held so they couldn't creep back into her heart.

She used it to write herself into stories. She spun clothes with words. Masks and swords and romance and sadness and battles with ghosts and dragons were etched into paper as they shimmered in her mind and pushed against her rose colored lips, begging to be let into the air. But after so long she knew that stories you speak to yourself shimmer in the air and die. To keep them all close, she wrote them down.

When she grew up, she traveled, going to far away lands that had magic in the earth. The ground beneath her feet vibrated with possibility and beckoned to her with promises of adventure, escape. She followed the calls far across the earth, chasing them in hopes that one day she could truly escape, to a place far from reality where she could live a story like the ones she wrote. But she always felt one step behind, always missing the call. Never getting to the right place at the right time.

The day she gave up chasing them, it was warm. She lay on her back looking up at the stars, lost in a country who's name she couldn't pronounce. The messenger bag over her shoulder was full of books, filled with curling, story covered pages. The stories over the years had become less and less fantasy until she was compelled to write her own name, and recall the places she had gone and the things she had done in her hunt after adventure.

The stars were reflected in her eyes, her hair was sprawled around her head in a haphazard mess. Her boots had dirt from every corner of the earth gritted into the rubber soles. Her jacket was worn and patched in several places, each hand stitch less clumsy than the one before. Her shorts and tank top were both grass stained, evidence of her day spent lounging and writing. With a deep breath and a sigh she closed her eyes. That was the day she had gone everywhere, seen everything earth had to offer.

She felt drowsy, laying there under the stars and wondering how it could be that by chasing adventure she had had one. Pondering what she could possibly do next and what else the world could offer. As sleep gripped her she felt worried, scared, and sad. It was as if her story was coming to an end, there would be a blank page and then the epilogue. The last few pages would talk about a woman who had seen it all and how she lived the last of her days wrapped up in boredom. Her sleep was fitful that night.

What do you say to a girl like that? How can you interest her, be her friend. She has a thousand stories in her head and on paper and stitched to her clothes. She has one hundred marked on her skin and still she seeks out more. With a girl like that around you feel inclined to sit at her feet and listen. So what do you say? I could only think of four words that could express all I felt.

"Take me with you." As the words leave my lips she smiles. Like that's what she was asking all along, “who will go with me”.

Some souls in the world can't sit idle while the world turns and spins around the sun. Adventure calls us, if we sit still too long it stirs our stomachs and knocks on our bones until it is unbearable and painful. If you ignore it long enough it manifests itself, as a being, with heart and eyes and countless stories shimmering in the air around her. Her name is Eselda and she is beautiful and bright. She tells you about the wonders of the world you haven't explored and all you can manage is, "Take me with you."

So we left.

-V (8/29/2019)